#virthiefictober

Fandom: Gravity Falls || CW: - || Scorched. “Yes, I’m aware. Your point?”

______

It would have been better if he didn’t catch me in time.

Of course, he felt stupid afterwards for the thought. Of course, it was better Stan caught him. Even in the moment of when Stan had been fast enough to catch him before he floated far away, and strong enough to pull him back out of the pull of the portal too, he’d felt beyond relieved. 

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (13/31)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

For @dvltgr

Prompt:   “Fight” from Writetober 2019 Prompt List

Fandom:  Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types

Relationship/Pairing:  Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang

Genre:  Pre-Canon, Young!Royai

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  1,726 words

Read on AO3

Dinner at Hawkeye Manor was a pleasant affair for those who were accustomed to long stretches of loaded silence. After three years of dining in a conversation vacuum, Roy Mustang had gotten used to it.

Berthold Hawkeye took his meals with his nose pressed between the pages of the newspaper while his daughter balanced the checkbook. Clinking silverware and chiming glass accompanied the pungent smell of printer’s ink as the tip of Riza’s pencil scratched against the household’s ledger. The set of the fourteen-year old’s blonde brow spoke volumes about the solvency of the Hawkeye estate, and judging from recent observations, Roy braced himself for another hard winter. He wrote home to his Aunt Chris, asking for sweet treats, a thick pair of gloves and extra blankets to see him through, intending to put the letter to post the next morning before his lessons.

“What are you doing?”

Riza’s voice was not entirely jarring, but the sudden urgency of the question caught Roy off guard. He flinched, nearly jumped out of his skin and pivoted in his chair, staring back at the knock-kneed tomboy as if he had seen a ghost. Admittedly, she had been looking paler lately; the threadbare quality of her clothes emphasized that fact.

“Writing a letter to my Aunt. Why?”

“The one who lives in Central?”

“Yes.” Roy supposed he hadn’t quite explained that he only had one aunt, that he knew of at least, but wasn’t about to start now. “Why?” Roy’s voice carried an edge that he hadn’t quite anticipated.

“Sorry,” he added, apologetically, “I’ve got a lot to do here, and you startled me. Is there something you need, Riza?”

Reluctance was not an emotion that Riza wore all that often or all that well. She fiddled with the frayed end of her baby blue sweater, refusing to meet his eyes as she spoke. “You should go into town to mail that letter this evening so it’ll go out on the morning train,” she said. “I’ll set aside some dinner for you. I’ll even give you an extra slice of dessert. It’s peach cobbler.”

“That will take almost an hour, and I don’t want an extra slice of dessert,” Roy retorted. “I can just give the letter to the postman tomorrow morning. One day won’t make a difference.”

Still stroking the hem of her clothing, Riza’s tone became impassioned. She looked up to meet the gaze of her father’s apprentice. “It might freeze tomorrow night, and the mail to Central could be delayed for weeks. Could you please, Roy? I- I need to talk to my father, and I think it’d be best if you were out.”

Roy opened his mouth to argue but stopped as the puzzle pieces fit together, forming a more precise picture in his mind. Riza needed to speak with her father, which she never did. She’d made Professor Hawkeye’s favorite food, peach cobbler, which they rarely could afford. Riza was offering Roy an extra slice of dessert - possible her own - because it was the only bargaining chip she had to offer.

He’d be an ass to refuse her request at this point. Aunt Chris had taught him better than that.

“Fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Roy glanced out the window as the wind gusted through the trees, knocking burnish yellow, brown and orange leaves from the branches. He shivered at the thought of a long, lonely walk down the dusty country road.

…

Roy returned later than intended with frozen toes and cheeks red and raw from the cold. As he stepped into the entryway and stamped his boots against the mat, Roy heard raised voices coming from their small kitchen, the place he usually ate dinner.

“I give you food. I give you shelter. I provide for a first-rate education, and what has that school imposed on us! The clothes on your back are fine as they are, and I should write that school an impassioned letter to protest non-academic endeavors. End of discussion.” Berthold’s raised voice loomed through the wooden walls of the dilapidated country home.

“All the other girls enjoy the cotillion,” Riza stressed. Her tone was high and shrill. “I don’t want to ruin it for everyone, but the nice dress I have doesn’t fit. I asked my teacher if I could help prepare and serve the food again with the lower grades, but she said no. I’m to be judged on table etiquette this year and dancing next year. The cotillion is one-sixth of my overall grade, Father!”

“Table etiquette and dancing!” Berthold scoffed. “I’m not going to allow you to spend a quarter of our monthly budget on frivolities such as shoes and dresses that you’ll wear once. What you have is sufficient.”

“Please, Father. I already tried letting out the seams. See? The hem is too far above my knees, and my chest-”

Roy crept close to the doorframe. He walked softly to muffle the sound of his footsteps against the hardwood and pressed his back against the wall. The apprentice stilled his breath to hear his master’s low, cruel utterance.

“Maybe you should eat less. It fit your mother fine when she was your age.”

There was a beat of silence as the weight of his words settled and wreaked their havoc. Roy’s fists tightened. His teeth clenched, and he heard the soft shuffling of fabric and shoes against the kitchen’s checkerboard floor as Riza darted into the hall.

He caught sight of her as she passed and was surprised to find Riza wearing a lacey white dress gone yellow with age. The delicate layers sat too high on her hips, and the button-up back was taut.  The effect strained the natural curves of her figure in places where the garment should have comfortably fallen. In the split-second their eyes met, she turned away and darted up the stairs toward her room.

As Roy followed in Riza’s footsteps, he stopped off at the small apprentice dormitory to discard his jacket, boots and scarf but caught sight of the dinner on his desk before he could peel the layers from his skin. As promised, there sat an extra serving a peach cobbler and a note thanking him for his discretion. The sight hurt Roy’s heart just as much as the soft sobs coming from the other side of the hallway.

He sat down to write another letter to his Aunt Chris and told himself that he didn’t mind two brisk walks through the bitter cold on the same evening.

…

If the crates stacked in the entryway of Hawkeye Manor bothered Berthold, he paid them little mind. The postman begrudgingly lugged them in from his wagon with sideways remarks about the size and weight that Roy pretended not to hear. It took the young man four trips to carry the wooden boxes to his second-story dormitory and twenty minutes more to recover from his exertions. But the content of crates far surpassed any expectations he might have had when he asked his Aunt if his sisters had a nice dress to spare.

Chris Mustang’s note was, as she, straightforward and to the point.

Roy-boy,

A dress is useless without shoes, coats and accessories. Your sisters have no need of these as they are from last year. See that they find a good home.

Aunt Chris

All that was left was to wait for Riza to return home from school.

…

“Oh, Riza,” Roy called out, pleased as a preening peacock, “could you come here a moment. I have a favor to ask.”

Roy waited with growing impatience for her to turn the corner and smiled like the Cheshire cat when her indignant scowl fell, quickly replaced by a look of wonder. At least a dozen dresses and coats of all colors and styles were laid over the two vacant beds in the dormitory. An entire jewelry box of ornate rings, bejeweled earnings and long strands of pearls sat casually on Roy’s nightstand. And in the corner of the room, a large crate of purses and high-heeled shoes sat, still waiting to be unpacked.

“My silly sisters thought you might be interested in some of their old dresses,” he started. “And I told them that, of course, you wouldn’t want last year’s styles, but they insisted, and here we are. Might you consider taking these off my hands? I’d hate to send them back.”

Riza approached the dresses with equal parts hesitation and fascination, running the back of her hand along the frilly sleeve of a shimmering, soft pink dress and burying her fingers in a fur-lined coat that, Roy realized, once belonged to his own Aunt. Then, suddenly, her awe turned sour as she shook her head to rid her eyes of the marvels before them.

“I can’t accept these, Roy,” she said sadly. “We can’t afford-”

“Oh, please,” Roy interrupted. He’d prepared himself for this particular argument. “No one would be caught dead in these clothes in Central City. And I realize it will be a hassle to take them in, but I’d hate to have to haul these to the post office. It’s so far away, and the weather is absolutely terrible this time of year.”

Roy hoped against hope that, just this once, she wouldn’t be so stubborn, and he was rewarded by a teary-eyes gaze that caught the reflection of the many metallic bobbles glinting in her new jewelry box. Riza gathered the clothing in her arms and looked at Roy with a heartbreaking grin that stretched the corners of her heart-shaped face.

“Thank you,” was all she said in reply.

Through the lump in his throat, Roy grumbled his own response. “Don’t mention it.”

He couldn’t go to the dance with her and probably would not spend another winter under Berthold’s tutelage. Neither could Roy change his master’s mind once it had been made up nor lessen the burden of her lonely life. But if he could play some small part in a brief moment of happiness, the young man decided he would take that chance, if not for altruistic reasons then selfish ones. If only so that when Riza would smile, all decked out in her finery as she departed for the cotillion, Roy would know he was responsible for it.

He would fight for her well-being, even after she herself had surrendered.

A/N:  Okay so I really wanted to write this scene since I have since changed my plans for the later fics so this is 10000000% au where Cara is the high queen of skyrim (its a long story come bug me about it in my ask box if you'd like) but i enjoyed this idea so much i figured i'd put it here!

Cara placed the Jagged Crown on her brow, the weight of it, making what was about to happen seem that much more permanent. She felt Miraak at her side.

“You do not have to do this, I know you do not want to.”

“I know your thoughts on the matter.”

“That does not mean that you have to do this.”

“He tried to kill me, if I let him live, who am I? Certainly not a queen. Not one that can lead her people anyway.”

Miraak gently grabbed her jaw to have her look at him, his eyes worried. “You have a gentle heart, dii lovaas. We all know this, no one can fault you for staying your hand.”

“It’s because I have a gentle heart they don’t take me seriously. It will break my heart, but,” she paused, stepping away from him, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. “This is something that must be done.”

She left the tent without another word, and Miraak followed.

The wind whipped at their robes, the camp silent as Cara, Miraak, and their honor guard walked through the cliffside camp.

A large crowd had gathered, some of the Jarls that had ridden south with them to fight the Thalmor, some lords and knights of the Empire.

Cara’s gaze snapped to that of her mother, her sister, and two brothers.

“Carawen, please I’m begging you, please pardon him.” Her mother implored, fighting the grip of two of the honor guards that were holding her back.

“Please, escort them out of here,” she adverted her gaze from her family. “They don’t need to see this.”

“You traitorous bitch.” Her older brother, Koredil swore, spitting on the ground at her feet.

“King Voriiel will put your head on a pike for this.” Nelaril added.

Cara stared at her brothers, sadness in her eyes. “I know you will never forgive me, but I’m sorry.”

Her sister was crying into their mother’s shoulder, but the guards took them away as she had asked.

Cara brought her gaze to the man kneeling in the center of the circle that had formed.

“Lord Falnar Direnni. You stand accused of attempted murder, and attempted assassination of the High Queen of Skyrim. How do you plead?”

The Altmer in front of her stared at her, venom in his blue-purple eyes. “I only regret that I didn’t throw you to the sea when you were a child, graxifalas hulkynd. You’ve been a disgrace since your mother birthed you.”

“Before I sentence you, father, I would speak for myself for once, not as Queen, but as your daughter.”

“You are no daughter of mine.”

Cara smiled. “You have said that all my life, but my imperfection comes from you, your bloodline. For years I thought, like a stupid child perhaps one day we could reconcile. But now I know that would never be the case.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “You are right, though. You are not my father, not really. I share your blood, but you do not share mine. Auri-El gave me my soul, Mara blessed it. I am the Last Dragonborn, I am of the Dragonblood, and that still doesn’t matter. All that matters is, I became the very thing you didn’t want me to be. And that is enough for me.”

The elf shook his head. “I pray for the day you die, even if it is not by my hand.”

Cara let out a deep breath. “Lord Falnar Direnni, I, Carawen Direnni, Arch Mage of the College of Winterhold, Stormcrown, Laat Dovahkiin, and High Queen of Skyrim, sentence you to die for your crimes against Skyrim and her people.”

“You won’t do it. You’re weak.”

“May the gods have mercy on you, father.”

“MUL QAH DIIV!”

Cara’s spectral dragon form settled over her shoulders, a blanket of black, gold and violet shimmering against her robes. Regal horns formed and fanned out from her brow, great transparent black wings settling on her back.

A realization settled over the old elf’s features as she took several steps towards him. “It wasn’t a lie, you really are-“

“Dovahkiin, geh, bormah.” Her Voice made the sky rumble.

Cara saw the fear in his eyes .“I’m sorry it has to end this way.” she murmured, no one but perhaps Miraak understanding her through the rumble of the sky.

“KRII LUN AUS!”

Her Voice rang out into the night, and Falnar slumped over into the dirt without a sound.

A/N: translations

(Seems Claire snuck in this time. Claire belongs to @captainthane)

Claire was impressed with this town she stumbled upon. It wasn't anywhere on the map but that didn't stop people from greeting her. It was refreshing to find human beings just genuinely being kind to each other.

It's almost like it's just contagious here.

She turned around when someone tugged on her shirt. The woman looked down to find a little girl in a brown dress just smiling at her. What was shocking was the fact it looked like she had a pair of tiny white wings.

The little girl grinned. “Your really pretty miss.”

Claire could only smile at that. The child just radiated joy. “That's very kind of you. Do you live here in this town?”

The little girl nodded almost as if she was just excited to even talk to someone new. “Yeah, I live here with daddy. My name is Sarah, what's your name miss?”

She smiled. "You may call me Claire, young one. Is your daddy nearby?"

This town has the safest feel but I don't see any parent letting a child this young alone in a village.

Sarah grins. "Daddy is working on new clothes he can sell in the city. I can play as long as I come home before it's dark."

Did those wings on her back move?

She grabbed Claire's hand and tried to tug her along. “Come on miss Claire. There is so much you can see in the village. Your gonna love it!”

Claire just laughed and let her be led by this young child.

000000

As the sun had begun to set, she at least walked Sarah home. The little girl's enthusiasm was almost contagious but she had a good time being showed around this little town.

Sarah paused and looked back. “So did you have fun miss Claire?”

Claire nodded. “You make a lovely tour guide.”

She looked down for a moment. "I have to say sorry. When I first saw you, it felt like a part of you was scary. That wasn't nice of me, because you're nice."

Wait, did she sense Fona somehow?

The woman dismisses the thought. Many things are still a mystery in the world, this child was no threat.

She knelt and patted Sarah on the head. "It's alright, I am new in town. It just means you were very brave to be so kind to me."

The child giggled before looking at the house on the hill. “That's my house.”

Sarah paused before running back. She handed Claire a small object while smiling. It was a small pretty stone.

“That's my favorite. I'm letting you borrow it so you better come back to town to give it back."

I honestly can't say no to that face.

Claire nodded and pocketed the rock. “Very well, I will return this to you next time little one. Now you better get going. Your father is waiting for you.”

Sarah waved as she ran over to her house. It was a pleasant experience for Claire. No demons, or even human cruelty. It was what she hoped life could be.

000000

It was almost a year since that first meeting as Claire stood in the ruins of little Sarah's home. Most of the village had repaired itself after what they called the great fire. Though they left this house untouched.

Many lives were lost including Sarah and her father.

“I'm so sorry little one. It seems I came back too late.”

She took out the stone and looked at it for a moment. There was a part of her wanted to leave it here in the girl's house. She decided to keep it instead.

I did promise to take good care of it. This shall serve as a good reminder. I won't make that mistake again.

The village itself just seemed to lose its charm. It's like all the joy seemed to leave it when that girl left the area. A lot of them just seemed to now call it a curse. All because they couldn't protect their little angel.

Everyone has scars in some way.

Some physical, some mental or emotional. A scar is a scar. 

Faye is no exception, of course. There was a reason she had always worn jean overalls, back when she was human. Her legs still had some leftover burn scars from her attempted sacrifice. She had a faint scar over her mouth as well, from a breakdown once while she was writing. 

Her other scars, however, are mental and emotional. 

Trauma, of course, from her past experiences with fire. Paranoia from her time looking for answers she should never have looked for, and from always being watched. Less trusting as well, from being manipulated by who was now her boss. 

She was also less... truthful herself, keeping many many secrets. She has to, for other people’s safety. It hurts, though, to keep things from others, so she decided to keep a distance, for her own good.

Fandom: Gravity Falls || CW: - || Moon. “No, and that’s final.”

______(~1k words) ______

Bandaging Stanley’s wound went relatively well, though perhaps only because neither one of them talked beyond basic exchanges. ‘This is going to sting.’ ‘You done?’ ‘So how many limbs am i losing?’ 

The last one, admittedly, made Ford smile a little, although there was a part of him worried about the wound still. Even if he had picked up the magic of the sigil, as the orange glow indicated, it was a protective one so if it did anything it should be to help him. 

Ficlet Scraps Fictober19 / Writetober: Day 8 Scraps (Again!! More Scraps!!)

Fandom: Gravity Falls || CW: - || wop wop stan is turned into a kid and ford’s trying to figure out what to do between him and the permanent threat of bill

______(~1500 words) ______

To be honest? Stan didn’t know who this even was. He looked too much like Pa though for him not to be related. Well if Pa didn’t wear suits and forgot to wash or shave. Stan’s best guess was that he was some older cousin or second cousin once removed twice joined, something like that. He didn’t remember seeing him before.

Except, he didn’t really remember much of anything around him right now. Not the messy kitchen, and he definitely should have remembered getting into clothes way bigger than him, or where he was at. He could see snow falling outside, which meant it definitely wasn’t Summer.

The guy took a deep breath, looking beyond tired which was all the more reason for Stan to not stick around him. “Stan? What’s the last thing you remember? Before you saw me.”

Fandom: Gravity Falls || CW: Character Death || Loss. “Now? Now you listen to me?”

______

Filbrick had never been much good with talking, a man of few words, so she wasn’t surprised to see his Last Will and Testament was only one page long.

He’d written it when he’d become bedridden and sealed it into a cheap envelope for the sake of formality.

The past few days had been emotionally exhausting to put it lightly and now, more than anything, she just felt tired. For once, Filbrick’s bluntness that started the letter was a comfort for her. It was just business. What was to be done with certain things. Simple and straightforward instructions.

Until the very end.

A single sentence requesting she tell the boys he loved them... including Stan.

Caryn’s hands crumpled the cheap paper as they began to shake.

After years of her trying to get him to say anything to Stanley again, casually mentioning him every long now and then just in the hopes that Filbrick would say something. Tell her to even just tell Stanley he said hello. Only for him to remain in stony silence.

“Now? Now you listen to me?”